f his own nature. He
had published a tragedy entitled, "The Patriot Martyrs," with an etched
frontispiece by Sir Charles, and an edition of it had been speedily
disposed of in presentations to the friends of the artist and poet,
and to the reviews and newspapers. Sir Charles had asked an eminent
tragedian of his acquaintance to place the work on the stage and to
enact one of the patriot martyrs. But the tragedian had objected that
the other patriot martyrs had parts of equal importance to that proposed
for him. Erskine had indignantly refused to cut these parts down or out,
and so the project had fallen through.

Since then Erskine had been bent on writing another drama, without
regard to the exigencies of the stage, but he had not yet begun it, in
consequence of his inspiration coming upon him at inconvenient hours,
chiefly late at night, when he had been drinking, and had leisure for
sonnets only. The morning air and bicycle riding were fatal to the
vein in which poetry struck him as being worth writing. In spite of the
bicycle, however, the drama, which was to be entitled "Hypatia," was
now in a fair way to be written, for the poet had met and fallen in love
with Gertrude Lindsay, whose almost Grecian features, and some knowledge
of the different calculua which she had acquired at Alton, helped him to
believe that she was a fit model for his heroine.

When the ladies came downstairs they found their host and Erskine in the
picture gallery, famous in the neighborhood for the sum it had cost Sir
Charles. There was a new etching to be admired, and they were called on
to observe what the baronet called its tones, and what Agatha would have
called its degrees of smudginess. Sir Charles's attention often wandered
from this work of art. He looked at his watch twice, and said to his
wife:

"I have ordered them to be punctual with the luncheon."

"Oh, yes; it's all right," said Lady Brandon, who had given orders that
luncheon was not to be served until the arrival of another gentleman.
"Show Agatha the picture of the man in the--"

"Mr. Trefusis," said a servant.

Mr. Trefusis, still in snuff color, entered; coat unbuttoned and
attention unconstrained; exasperatingly unconscious of any occasion for
ceremony.

"Here you are at last," said Lady Brandon. "You know everybody, don't
you?"

"How do you do?" said Sir Charles, offering his hand as a severe
expression of his duty to his wife's guest, who took it cordially,